Darkest Before Dawn (12 page)

I
t’s
funny how quickly you can forget things.

Faces, voices…absence and time makes even the most salient of memories seem inaccurate. I’ve started to wonder if some of what I remember is even true. Maybe none of my past is real. Did any of that life before this hell really exist? Because it all seems so foreign now, and the daydreams and reality are all muddled like a water color painting left to dry out in the rain—all the colors have bled together until I can no longer make out the once perfect lines.

I can barely hear a soft rumble of thunder, and I find myself wishing I could watch it storm. Little things like watching the rain—those are things you never think you’ll miss; things you never learn to appreciate. Maybe I should be grateful that this entire ordeal has taught me to take nothing for granted. It’s shown me just how much to life there is to love and appreciate and soak up.

The latch clicks, the hinges creaking as Max opens the door. He steps inside, locks the door, and stands at the foot of my bed. His gaze is aimed at the floor, his hand rubbing over the back of his neck. Ever since the other day, I’ve been trying to force myself to hate him. Theoretically, it should be easy. And for a split second, I feel it. I feel that anger bubbling in my chest as I stare at him.

It is
his
fault I am still here. He’s sick for fucking me. But I’m just as sick for wanting him too…and then he lifts his head. Worry is etched on his face, his eyes swimming with regret. And the smallest part of me believes he loves me. That fucked-up part of me that believes in fate believes he loves me and I love him and that somewhere in this dark place he’s brought me, we could be happy. In the very moment our gazes lock all I want to do is touch him. My chest tightens. My fingers draw into tight fists.

Max takes a step toward me, his body blocking the light and casting shadows over his face. All I can think is I don’t
want
to hate him, no, I want to love him and I want him to love me because we’re both part of this darkness and the way people like us have to be loved—there can be no light.

“I won’t come down here again tonight,” he says.

“Why?”

“I have to take care of something.”

“Okay.” Tension hangs thick in the air and I take him in: his face, his muscles, his scent. My heart hammers in my chest, my face heats, and because I no longer have control over anything, I sit up and grab onto his arm, dragging him down on the bed beside me.

He studies me, his gaze flicking between my eyes and my lips. “This is not how this should be,” he says so quietly I’m not sure he meant to say those words aloud.

My pulse races, my mind jumbles, and before I realize I’m speaking, I say, “But what if it is?”

Max grabs my face, pulling my lips to his in a brutal kiss. His fingers tangle in my hair, his soft tongue brushing against mine before his teeth rake across my lip, and suddenly, he pulls away. His thumb gently rubs over my cheek while he glares at me with passion that strikes primitive fear deep within me. This man is a walking contradiction. Never has brutality seemed so kind, so gentle. Never have I wanted to be owned by a man the way I do him.

There’s a flicker deep within his eyes. They narrow and he leans into me, pushing me to lie on my back with him on top of me. Max grabs my wrists, pinning my arms above my head. My heart goes into a full on sprint. I close my eyes, and then, I feel him tenderly kiss down my neck. Just as I move my head to the side, the gentle kisses stop and he bites down on my throat. The sudden change in sensations causes me to squirm under his massive frame. On a groan, he sits up, straddling my hips as he tears his shirt over his head. The way the shadows dance over his muscles when he tosses his shirt to the side of the room is nothing short of a sin. His hands roughly glide over the curve of my waist, and he’s still right there, straddling me, his defined chest rising in ragged swells as he stares at me—
through
me—into the darkest parts of me I don’t let anyone into.

He grabs the straps of my camisole with one hand and pulls the material to the middle of my chest, exposing my breasts. For a moment, he palms me, squeezing and pinching my skin before he leans over and sucks one nipple between his soft lips. Everything about the way he is touching me is so gentle and reverent, and then his teeth clamp down around my nipple. I gasp, my back bowing away from the bed. Grabbing my jaw, he gives me another hard kiss then pulls away.

There’s a flash in his eyes, a torn expression ripping across his face as he trails his fingertips down my jaw, sweeping them across my neck. A hard breath escapes his lips, his eyes lock with mine, and he slowly presses his thick forearm over my throat—gentle enough to not kill me, but hard enough to make me think he just may. And maybe that’s why he looks so torn…maybe he knows he has to kill me. There’s a long moment where we stare at each other, the pressure from his arm growing ever so slightly stronger. His nostrils flare, his teeth sink into his bottom lip. “Fuck,” he groans. A touch more pressure and then he moves away, taking both straps of my shirt in his hands and tugging until the thin material bites into my skin, then shreds.

And then…I’m at a loss.

His hands roam over my body, gripping and squeezing. I close my eyes and squirm as his greedy mouth travels down my chest, to the curve of my hip and to the top of my thigh. The pads of his rough fingers dig into my flesh as he forces my legs apart with a low growl.

My hands are still above my head, where moments ago he had them pinned, because I just
can’t
seem to move them. I’m too into what he’s doing to move—too into the absolute possession he’s creating; the vulnerability. He pushes the leg of my shorts to the side, and the moment I feel his warm mouth over my clit, a deep sigh rushes from my lungs. I fist at the sheets, tossing my head back and moaning. His tongue flicks over me, soft at first, teasing me, then hard and rough and animalistic. Max grabs the waist of my shorts, ripping them down my legs. And there he sits, his hands rubbing over my thighs, his gaze locked between my legs as he slowly leans down.

“Fuck, woman,” he says in a low voice, his hot breath blowing against my pussy before his warm mouth envelops me.

I grab onto his thick hair, tugging at it as his tongue works over me. Minutes later, his fingers are inside of me, flexing and bending in ways I didn’t know were possible. The muscles in his forearm tense and bunch underneath his tattoos, and those dark eyes of his remain locked with mine in a predatory stare. Each thrust of his hand grows more rough than the last, almost violent, until I’m sitting up—his hand still buried between my thighs as I unintentionally attempt to scoot away from him. But he follows me, fucking me harder with his hand. My back presses against the wooden headboard, and I can go no farther. I’m here at his mercy. And honestly, there is nowhere else I would rather be.

With his fingers sinking deeper inside of me, he grabs my face and kisses me ruthlessly, the taste of myself coating his thick tongue. My entire body lifts away from the mattress, my hips bucking.

“Jesus… Fuck.” I pause to drag in a deep breath. “Fucking hell,” I moan and he goes even harder until I’m screaming and coming.

I’m still riding out the waves of endorphins crashing through my body when he drags me away from the headboard. He grabs my legs and pushes my knees back by my head as he leans over me. “I’m not done with you yet either,” he says before placing his mouth back on me, causing my entire body to jerk from the sensation.

Only a few moments of his tongue against me, and my muscles are clenching again. I’m spiraling into another oblivion, swearing at God and at him for how damn good this feels. At this moment, I no longer have control. Max controls everything right down to my own body.

I lie here panting, gripping the sheets and screaming while he continues to lick over me. When I finally catch my breath, I sit up, pushing against his chest until he falls back on the mattress with a slight smirk. I grab onto his boxers and yank them down, his large cock slapping against his stomach. Slowly, I trace my tongue over his length, circling around the swollen head. I stop, lift my eyes, and look at him before I flick my tongue over the tip with a smile.

“Shit,” he says, wrapping my hair around his wrist and yanking my head back down on him. I take him in my mouth, trailing my tongue over him as I work my hand up and down his shaft. Seconds later he grabs my hips, picks me up, and slams me back down on the bed. He grabs one thigh, his grip digging into my skin as he twists me onto my side and shoves that leg up against my chest before settling between my thighs. I attempt to move and his eyes flare. “Don’t fucking move,” he says, pinning his forearm over my throat.

And with that warning he slams into me.
Over and over.

He moves his arm, wrapping his thick fingers around my throat and dragging my mouth to his as he fucks me. He pushes me back down to the mattress and flips me onto my stomach, jerking my hips up and pressing down on the small of my back before he slides into me again. Two thrusts in, he grabs my hair and yanks my head, causing a deep bow to form in the middle of my back. He fucks me so hard my back begins to ache, and for a brief moment, I’m afraid he’s going to snap my spine in two. I moan. I push against him. I fight the urge I have at times to pull away from him.

Max grabs me by the throat again, yanking me closer to him so he can kiss my neck. His heavy breaths blow across my skin, against my ear with each hard thrust, and that feeling sends chill bumps sweeping over my skin. His fingers slide around my throat until he’s cupping my jaw, and on a groan, he pulls me in for another hard, angry kiss. He’s fucking me like he wants to kill me, yet he’s kissing me like he wants to love me. The second he releases my throat, his hand slaps over my ass and he buries himself deeper inside of me before gripping my hips in his hands so hard I know I’ll be bruised tomorrow. It’s like he can’t fuck me hard enough. Max is dancing on that thin, fragile line between pleasure and pain. I fight to not pull away from him because while it hurts, it feels incredible.

This is fucking. Plain and simple.

His fingers sink deeper into my hips as his pace picks up. Sweat builds on the small of my back, and I can’t stop the string of moans that keep trickling through my lips, my body clenching. Another smack over the ass and he winds my hair around his wrist again, tugging my head back just before he stiffens behind me, groaning and cursing.

I collapse onto the bed, trying desperately to catch my breath. My heart is pounding, my body weightless. Max lies down next to me, his eyes trained on mine. And here we stay in the silence, hidden in the dark recesses of this house like this is the way things are meant to be. And in my head I recite a line from Pablo Neruda:
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

Max drags me onto his chest. I lie, listening to the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat as I trail my fingers over his arm, tracing over his tattoos. I’m in love with the man I should hate, and I believe he’s in love with something he must kill.

Every day things grow darker around here. I’m not sure how much dimmer it can get. All things done in the shadows will eventually come to light, and with that sliver of light will come some type of freedom for me. Whether that freedom be death or escape.

Truthfully, part of me wishes for death because, though I may escape this place, I will never escape this hold he has on me. And the one thing I am certain of as I lie in his arms is that something will change soon because it’s always darkest before the dawn.

T
om’s house
is a fucking mess. Papers are everywhere, empty beer cans strewn all over the floor. Gnats swarm around the overflowing trashcan and there’s a pile of dog shit buzzing with flies in the corner. Months of doing this shit and finally,
finally
, I have names at my disposal.

I sift through papers of chicken scratch. Record keeping is important in this line of work for one reason: to cover your ass. You don’t put anything on a computer and you don’t put too much information on one piece of paper.

Underneath one of the piles is a mold-covered paper plate. I knock that to the floor and keep digging, finally finding one of the three legal pads I’m in search of. I flip through the list of names and next to each man’s name is a number. My palms slick with sweat. I shove the notebook under my arm and keep tossing shit onto the floor. The other legal pad is at the very bottom. This one is simply numbers with first names to the side. My hand shakes as I flip to the second page and the third and the fourth. One hundred and forty-five names. One hundred and forty-five women. Taken. Broken. Sold. Next to number one forty-five is Ava’s name. I turn back one page and quickly skim down until I see my sister’s name. Lila is number one hundred and eighteen. I take the other pad from under my arm, trailing my fingertip down, my pulse hammering through my temples as I read over the name of the man who bought my sister: Andrew Biddle.

Spit fills my mouth and I swallow. There’s a slow rage burning through my veins.

A name.

It seems so simple now, but for months no one cared. No one looked for her because to society she was worthless. A prostitute, a drug addict, but to me she was my blood. My sister. My only fucking family, and to me, no matter how fucked up she was, she meant something. And this motherfucker paid a menial amount to have her and do God knows what with.

I place the notepads on the desk and take my phone from my back pocket. A quick search has Andrew Biddle’s address at my fingertips, and the most fucked-up thing, he lives a mere twenty miles from this very place. My chest tightens. Blood jolts through my jugular. Snatching the notebooks up, I turn and storm out of the house. Angry that she was taken, pissed that this entire time she’s been so close. The door slams shut behind me. My pace picks up as I jog to my car and by the time I’m behind the steering wheel, I can literally
see
my pulse throbbing. Each beat of my heart blurs my vision.

Within seconds, his address is entered into my GPS. I close my eyes and slam my head back against the leather seat, taking several deep breaths that do little to calm my nerves. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway when I pull off from Tom’s shithole of a house. I watch that little blue arrow on the navigation screen draw closer and closer to where Lila is. This was my sole purpose. Finding Lila was how I justified every fucking sin I’ve made, day in and day out for the past six months. And here it is, my resolution. I will find the man who bought her. I will find her, and I can turn these sons of bitches in, and Ava…
Ava
… My throat tightens in a panic because what
will
I do with her?

I’ll take her with me.
Is that wrong? Would it be wrong of me to take her with me? I feel things for her—there is a comfort with her I’ve never experienced, something so right and natural. And I fear if I actually let myself see it, I’d find I’m in love with her or that I’ve gone fucking batshit crazy.

I floor the accelerator, going wide-open down the old country road. And within ten minutes I’m pulling onto a long, winding driveway. The house is a large Victorian manner with an Aston Martin parked in front of impressive landscaping. There must be at least forty windows and only one is lit up.

I grab the revolver from the glove box and step out of the car, being careful to close the door quietly. My heart bangs against my ribcage as I grapple with the thought of what I’m about to do. I don’t mind killing. It’s the thought that I’m about to save her that has me on edge, because what if I fuck up? I have no plan and although that should make me precautious, it doesn’t. Sometimes anger and revenge work better than any rational plan could ever hope to work.

I stay close to the manicured bushes lining the front of the house, then quietly tiptoe up the stone steps to the stained glass door. The door doesn’t budge when I pull on the handle. Exhaling, I drag my hand through my hair, searching for something to break the glass door with. Next to the entrance is a large cement planter housing a wilting bay tree. Pebbles are scattered around the trunk, and there, sticking out like a sore thumb is a large, plastic rock hide-a-key. I can’t help but smirk as I take the key from it and toss it back into the planter. A soft click of the latch and the door silently swings open into a large, marble foyer with a grand piano at the base of the winding staircase.

It’s eerily quiet and even though I attempt to be discreet, the heel of my boots echo up into the pitched ceiling. I cock the gun. That click reverberates around the room, the sound causing a sick grin to twist my lips. There have been plenty of people whose lives I have fantasized about taking, but this faceless man—I have dreamed of taking his life then Earl’s for far too many nights. I want this. I need this like I need the fucking air I’m breathing.
Retribution.

Once I’ve climbed the stairs, I head to the side of the house where I saw the lit window. I take a right and creep down the long hallway past room after room, and at the very end I see a cracked door, the light streaming out into the hallway. A deep sob flows into the hall, followed by a man’s voice pleading with God. I stop right outside the door and press my back to the wall, gun raised.

“Why?” he cries. “I
loved
you. I loved you!”

I sidestep a little closer to the doorway. Through the cracked opening I can just make out a large four-poster bed topped with thick blankets, and there beside it kneels the motherfucker who has had my sister for the past seven months. My hand shakes, my finger twitching over the trigger. I watch as he reaches up and takes a hand into his, kissing the back of it gently.

“I loved you…” he says again, shaking his head and crying.

Sweat beads my brow line and I struggle to catch an even breath. I want to slaughter him. I want to crucify him.

He nuzzles her hand again and that’s when I notice something’s not right. Suddenly, the rage building in my chest dissipates, fear and apprehension quickly replacing it. I kick the door open and the man jumps, his bloodshot eyes darting over to me and the raised gun. He looks broken, desperate, and instead of reacting, he simply turns his attention back to the bed, bringing a pale hand up to his face and rubbing his cheek over the fingers. My gaze swings to the bed. My knees threaten to buckle. My heart holds back several beats before going into a full on sprint.

Lila is in the middle of the bed. Half of her skull is blown to bits, blood and brain matter splattered over the white linen sheets and back of the wooden headboard. All this time, and I was maybe an hour too fucking late. One goddamn hour.

I want to fall apart, drop to my knees and scream, but I don’t. Instead, I keep my gaze locked on the lifeless body of my little sister, tears blurring my vision as I raise the gun and press it against the man’s temple. He doesn’t move or make a sound, and I say nothing, just pull the trigger. A loud bang breaks the sound of silence followed by a distinct thud as his body hits the hardwood floor. Closing my eyes and inhaling, I drop my chin to my chest.

“I’m sorry, Lila.” I barely manage the words as I open my eyes and step over his body to the edge of the bed. I grab her hand. Finding it is still warm causes my stomach to turn and I choke back a sob. There’s a 45 still gripped in her other hand.

Lila was taken, yes. She was taken off the streets and stripped of what little self she had. Sold to this man who, so it seems, may have actually loved her. Large diamond rings adorn her fingers, a Tiffany’s necklace hangs around her blood-soaked neck. This life—well, it seems like the kind any girl would gladly accept, especially one who had lost everything, who had been reduced to fucking men to support a habit. Yet, Lila chose to kill herself. She was a prisoner to drugs and to the streets and still had the will to survive, but here, surrounded with all this, she chose to end her life.

And why?

Because love is not something you can fake. It is not something that should be manipulated. And being forced to believe you love someone you don’t, I guess that’s enough to drive anyone insane. I don’t know how long I stand here, holding her hand and crying, accepting that I failed her. But eventually, I let her hand fall to the bed and leave, driving in silence back to the house.

I will not fail Ava.